[Memoir]
From an October 10, 1987 memoir of George Mavroyenis, a retired Chicago Public School janitor who emigrated from Crete, Greece in 1974. In his memoir, “The Light of Suffering,” published this month by BlackPowder Press, Mavroyenis recounts the anguish of pride and honor in a small village on the island of Crete. At age 12, Mavroyenis tells of an execution of a convicted rapist and murderer in 1954. The memoir was co-written by his nephew, Markos Mavroyenis, who taped many conversations between himself and his uncle.
The Wall
A fresh coat of paint on the wall meant an execution occurred. From the dirt road the wall was poised among the jasmine flowers and lemon trees. Bedraggled and weathered for so long, its edges were round and smooth, the white paint faded and flaking – all except for the small section where the short man in overalls worked. He stamped out his cigarette and wiped his forehead then dropped the brush in the pail. There was no more trace and with that no more memory. Far from the wall, on the road, I could see the painter’s dark fuzzy face as he sat against the wall with an arm on his knee eating an apple.
The wall, separating the prison from an ancient lemon orchard, was composed of stones densely packed a little higher than a man, fit and mortared like puzzle pieces long ago and re-mortared many times over. I waited for the painter to leave but he wouldn’t. Finally I hiked up to the wall. The dirt was light and dry and I could not find the shell casings. The wall stood ominously before me as I searched the painted area, any secrets of murders or executions withheld; the wall was solemn and proud and stubborn, as if the only struggle was its defiance against gravity to keep it rooted in the earth.
“What’d you lose,” the painter said picking at his teeth.
“The shell casings,” I said.
“You’ll find hundreds of them. But you got to dig.”
“I’m looking for the ones this morning.”
“Oh,” the painter said. He spit from his tooth whatever he was picking. “The yellow bastard’s hand shook so much he missed twice before he finally put him out of his misery.”
“I just want the brass,” I said.
“Then you keep looking, kid.”
The painter left. I scrounged on hands and knees by the freshly painted section of the wall, looking for the cursed bullets.
Nothing could be found. I walked a few yards along the perimeter of the wall, touching it gently as if feeling for a pulse. The dirt popped under my hard shoe-leather. It was as though every rock and pebble on the island of Crete has been sprinkled with blood, each with a story of terror and triumph and in no particular hurry to be told. Just this morning, twelve rifles pointed at Evangelos, who stood gnarled-teethed against the wall. His beard long and filthy, his face bruised from the officers’ unique interrogation, the saliva and bloody slobber coagulated in the corners of his mouth.
The lieutenant asked for twelve volunteers. If no one stepped forward then twelve men would be ordered to do it. Luckily, men from the village of Sfakia were always game for an execution. These people observed archaic laws unerringly, as if together the ways of ancient Greece and the Bible mutated and spawned the Sfakiani people, who stood like taciturn pillars, proud and broad shouldered, with thick moustaches and guns in their belt – God’s avenging angels. A cantankerous clan who laughed and danced and played with Death, all of them adorned in black shirts because a father or brother or uncle had been killed in a blood-soaked vendetta.
The lieutenant got his volunteers. Six guns were loaded with blanks, all twelve pointed at Evengelos’s chest. By the time of the execution, all of Greece had heard the name Evangelos, but only in Crete, where he was transported from the mainland and incarcerated, was he to be dealt with. The Greek people were relieved to know Evangelos was is in Crete. Crete is the land where impunity dies. All debts are paid to the earth with prejudice and every wrong is righted - that is why Crete’s soil is of the most fertile in the world.
When the prisoner arrived the warden was furious simply by the sight of him. Evangelos was found curing intestines and other body parts that hung from a sapling to dry. His twelve-year-old daughter sat under the tree, her face in a peaceful disposition. Her abdomen was splayed open and festooned the grisly site.
“How could you do that to your own daughter?” The warden asked.
“When you plant a tree and it bears fruit, do you not want to be the first to eat it?” Evangelos said.
The warden ordered his execution immediately; a prison cell was not even assigned to him. Evangelos refused the blindfold. Any prayers from Father Michael where met with curses and spit. At dawn the Sfakiani fired their rifles and Evangelos slammed back into the wall then slid down and slumped to one side.
The lieutenant looked at prisoner. The blood trailed from the wall and soddened the earth beneath Evangelos. The lieutenant then turned to the warden.
“Do I have to?” he asked.
“You must put a pistol round in his head. We can’t leave him half-dead,” the warden said.
The Sfakiani roared with laughter as the lieutenant’s gun trembled in his hand. I can only imagine that as he stood over Evangelos he did not aim at his head, but at the dirt behind it. That’s the only way he could do it. Still, he missed with the first and second shot. Evangelos’s leg jerked three or four times and the lieutenant jumped back. His career in the military was over. The Sfakiani would never let him live down his cowardice.
From an October 10, 1987 memoir of George Mavroyenis, a retired Chicago Public School janitor who emigrated from Crete, Greece in 1974. In his memoir, “The Light of Suffering,” published this month by BlackPowder Press, Mavroyenis recounts the anguish of pride and honor in a small village on the island of Crete. At age 12, Mavroyenis tells of an execution of a convicted rapist and murderer in 1954. The memoir was co-written by his nephew, Markos Mavroyenis, who taped many conversations between himself and his uncle.
The Wall
A fresh coat of paint on the wall meant an execution occurred. From the dirt road the wall was poised among the jasmine flowers and lemon trees. Bedraggled and weathered for so long, its edges were round and smooth, the white paint faded and flaking – all except for the small section where the short man in overalls worked. He stamped out his cigarette and wiped his forehead then dropped the brush in the pail. There was no more trace and with that no more memory. Far from the wall, on the road, I could see the painter’s dark fuzzy face as he sat against the wall with an arm on his knee eating an apple.
The wall, separating the prison from an ancient lemon orchard, was composed of stones densely packed a little higher than a man, fit and mortared like puzzle pieces long ago and re-mortared many times over. I waited for the painter to leave but he wouldn’t. Finally I hiked up to the wall. The dirt was light and dry and I could not find the shell casings. The wall stood ominously before me as I searched the painted area, any secrets of murders or executions withheld; the wall was solemn and proud and stubborn, as if the only struggle was its defiance against gravity to keep it rooted in the earth.
“What’d you lose,” the painter said picking at his teeth.
“The shell casings,” I said.
“You’ll find hundreds of them. But you got to dig.”
“I’m looking for the ones this morning.”
“Oh,” the painter said. He spit from his tooth whatever he was picking. “The yellow bastard’s hand shook so much he missed twice before he finally put him out of his misery.”
“I just want the brass,” I said.
“Then you keep looking, kid.”
The painter left. I scrounged on hands and knees by the freshly painted section of the wall, looking for the cursed bullets.
Nothing could be found. I walked a few yards along the perimeter of the wall, touching it gently as if feeling for a pulse. The dirt popped under my hard shoe-leather. It was as though every rock and pebble on the island of Crete has been sprinkled with blood, each with a story of terror and triumph and in no particular hurry to be told. Just this morning, twelve rifles pointed at Evangelos, who stood gnarled-teethed against the wall. His beard long and filthy, his face bruised from the officers’ unique interrogation, the saliva and bloody slobber coagulated in the corners of his mouth.
The lieutenant asked for twelve volunteers. If no one stepped forward then twelve men would be ordered to do it. Luckily, men from the village of Sfakia were always game for an execution. These people observed archaic laws unerringly, as if together the ways of ancient Greece and the Bible mutated and spawned the Sfakiani people, who stood like taciturn pillars, proud and broad shouldered, with thick moustaches and guns in their belt – God’s avenging angels. A cantankerous clan who laughed and danced and played with Death, all of them adorned in black shirts because a father or brother or uncle had been killed in a blood-soaked vendetta.
The lieutenant got his volunteers. Six guns were loaded with blanks, all twelve pointed at Evengelos’s chest. By the time of the execution, all of Greece had heard the name Evangelos, but only in Crete, where he was transported from the mainland and incarcerated, was he to be dealt with. The Greek people were relieved to know Evangelos was is in Crete. Crete is the land where impunity dies. All debts are paid to the earth with prejudice and every wrong is righted - that is why Crete’s soil is of the most fertile in the world.
When the prisoner arrived the warden was furious simply by the sight of him. Evangelos was found curing intestines and other body parts that hung from a sapling to dry. His twelve-year-old daughter sat under the tree, her face in a peaceful disposition. Her abdomen was splayed open and festooned the grisly site.
“How could you do that to your own daughter?” The warden asked.
“When you plant a tree and it bears fruit, do you not want to be the first to eat it?” Evangelos said.
The warden ordered his execution immediately; a prison cell was not even assigned to him. Evangelos refused the blindfold. Any prayers from Father Michael where met with curses and spit. At dawn the Sfakiani fired their rifles and Evangelos slammed back into the wall then slid down and slumped to one side.
The lieutenant looked at prisoner. The blood trailed from the wall and soddened the earth beneath Evangelos. The lieutenant then turned to the warden.
“Do I have to?” he asked.
“You must put a pistol round in his head. We can’t leave him half-dead,” the warden said.
The Sfakiani roared with laughter as the lieutenant’s gun trembled in his hand. I can only imagine that as he stood over Evangelos he did not aim at his head, but at the dirt behind it. That’s the only way he could do it. Still, he missed with the first and second shot. Evangelos’s leg jerked three or four times and the lieutenant jumped back. His career in the military was over. The Sfakiani would never let him live down his cowardice.
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